


Aldamir

by AnnEllspethRaven, Zhie



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ents, Friendship/Love, Gondolin, Language Barrier, M/M, Miscommunication, The Avari, Tree Climbing, Trees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:00:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26296084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnEllspethRaven/pseuds/AnnEllspethRaven, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zhie/pseuds/Zhie
Summary: Speaking different languages is an obstacle to love. But not as big an obstacle as running away.
Relationships: Galdor of the Havens/Rog, Rog & Turgon of Gondolin
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15
Collections: Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020





	Aldamir

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WaywardDesertKnight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaywardDesertKnight/gifts).



> Written for TSRB 2020 Art #112 The Wild City, by aphrodites-bloody-rose  
> Prompt: In this, Rog is an Avarin elf who has escaped thralldom from Angband and now lives in Gondolin and has been elected the liaison to Turgon’s court for the rest of the Avari. They build an entire treehouse district in the city.

****

**Part 1**

“We have an incident. The King requires your assistance.”

It was nearly midnight in Gondolin. Lord Galdor was sitting at his walnut desk, nursing copious mosquito bites suffered in the name of gardening. There were very few times that Galdor would be summoned by the King, and he could not recall a single time it would be with such insistence at such a late hour. “Are you sure he means for me?” he asked the messenger as he began to stand. “Are you sure he is not in need of Lord Ecthelion or Lord Glorfindel or –”  
  


“He very most specifically said, ‘Go to the House of the Tree and fetch Lord Galdor. Make Haste!’ and shooed me off, your Lordship,” said the messenger, who was out of breath both from riding and from running up the stairs to reach Galdor. “Please, Sir. Will you come with me?”

“Most certainly I shall,” confirmed Galdor, and he followed the messenger out of the study and down the hall. “Might I inquire as to the urgency? Have you any further information about the incident in question?”

“King Turgon received a report from the border that a group of foreign Elves made it into the city. He and Lord Egalmoth joined Lord Duilin at the gate. They greeted them and explained that they were not permitted to leave. The Elves do not speak Quenya nor do they speak Sindarin. A fight broke out when they tried to leave, and they scattered and ran into the forest. Lord Egalmoth and Lord Duilin went in with several of their men to flush them out, but they climbed up into the trees, and the armor of our folk was too heavy for that. There was a lot of shouting, and both Willowhisper and Twotrunk were awoken. Apparently, these Elves _can_ speak to them.”

“And that is why you need me!” Galdor excitedly figured out. Lord Galdor of theHouse of the Tree spoke Old Entish fluently. While the Ents of Gondolin knew some Quenya and a little Sindarin, they were far more comfortable with older languages, and most of all, they preferred to speak in their own language. They were particularly fond of Galdor, not only for his willingness to learn their tongue, but because of his love of trees, and had named him Ent-friend in the early days of Gondolin’s founding. “I am more than honored to be called upon as a translator. I would wager they are Avarin Elves! How exciting!” 

The ride to the forest was not long, for Galdor’s district was separated from the forest only by Duilin’s lands. 

Turgon could be easily spotted standing more than a head above the others, waiting patiently (a good sign – given the hour, that could have gone either way) next to a strange elf whose appearance was harried but with a proud bearing. If he felt nervous there was no sign of it to Galdor’s eyes; only a quiet determination that bespoke considerable strength.

The king's keen eyes caught sight of Galdor at once, not leaving the Lord while the messenger discharged the last of his duties. “I do not doubt you were informed of the reason for your summons, Lord Galdor; your attendance is appreciated. I have been able to determine that our guest’s name is Rog -- who is not our guest because as you know my laws are clear that those who find Gondolin may not leave Gondolin. This circumstance seems to be most upsetting to Rog’s people for as you can see they have fled into the trees. There is little doubt in my mind that Rog could have done the same but he has not. 

“You can equally see there is no weapon drawn on him for his action is honorable and he is behaving as a leader ought. I am certain that pending communication some resolution can be achieved. I am equally convinced Rog has a story to tell. He is thin. Bruised. He bears signs of injuries still healing. I should like to know more,” Turgon concluded softly, noticing that while Rog did not cower before him in any manner, the ellon’s demeanor showed basic respect. As in, Rog observed Turgon wore a crown, deduced he must be the ruler of this place, and his body language revealed the deference due anyone of such a station. “Therefore I am hoping you can assist us?”

“Most certainly, your majesty!” announced Galdor with great excitement as he dismounted and approached TwoTrunk, who was the closer of the two Ents gathered. The other, Whisperwillow, was in quiet discussion with some of their not-guests, and was known to be rather soft spoken anyhow. Galdor took his time greeting TwoTrunk, and asking of his welfare, and inquiring about the weather and the birds, for everyone knows that no one can rush to business with an Ent. It is not only rude, it is unwanted. Questions of a serious nature not pertaining to nature must be asked with tact, and only after all other items of importance are considered, such as the building of hives by a new swarm of bees, or the lack of ivy growth this year.

When those topics were covered, and only then, did Galdor slip in a very casual, ‘I see we have some permanent visitors’, speaking in the slow barooms and harooms of the Entish language. This meant that by the time he reached this point, half of the new arrivals were either asleep or lounging, and those who were not were at least leaned against trees. All of them except for the leader, who circled Galdor and Twotrunk. Occasionally, he would stop to glare at Turgon, Ecthelion, and Egalmoth, who had with them a few dozen soldiers in case the newcomers suddenly got the idea to make a run for it.

"Oh, yes," came Twotrunk’s equally drawn out reply. "They have quite a story to tell. From Angband they escaped, and it was no small task, either. They are Elves of the Forest, from the clan of the Kindi, captured long years ago, years before King Turgon came to build the walls to keep Elves and Ents safe, and long years before I was even sprouted from the earth. They were thralls of Morgoth, enslaved to work in the mines and forges because of their strength. They worked to fashion for him that which he could not do--metals unbreakable yet malleable, and chains which once crafted can never again be broken, harder than steel, metal like the hardest rock. They built armor for flying serpents, and placed kin in bondage. Some of them were the ones who created the bonds that kept Prince Maedhros hanging by his wrist."

Galdor recounted all of this to Turgon in Quenya, the last part of which caused a stir in the gathering crowd. ‘Surely, they did not mean to participate in such a horrific tragedy,’ prompted Galdor.

"No, no, little Elf of the Trees, they did not," Twotrunk told him. "Already then they were devising in secret a plan to escape, but it took them long years for an opportunity to arise. They made a promise that it would be all of them or none of them, for those left behind would be severely punished. When they had the chance, they took up their hammers in wrath and they smote the orcs that guarded them. Rog was proclaimed leader, for of them all, he is mightiest, and when it seemed a few of them would be taken down by a troll of considerable size, Rog wrestled with the beast, flung him down, and then smashed his head between his hammer and an anvil. They lost a few of their comrades on the journey here, but they died free and were buried instead of being fed to the wolves of Angband."

“And now they are here,” said Galdor in Quenya. He switched back to Entish and asked, "You seem to speak their language, Twotrunk. I ask your pardon for such an inconvenience, but would you be so kind as to inform them of the rules of Gondolin?""‘Pardon is unnecessary. I am happy to help. I have already told them the rules, though Whisperwillow was better at doing so. I am a little hasty as we both know."

Galdor laughed, and as he did so, Rog approached him swiftly and ferociously, and grabbed him at the throat. Galdor stood perfectly still, though the soldiers nearby tensed, and the other Avari became alarmed. Rog began to speak fast and angrily, and Galdor looked up at the Ent for guidance.

"The big Elf is mad for you mocking him," explained Twotrunk, one of the few individuals who did not appear worried about the situation.

"Can you please tell him I was not laughing at him?" asked Galdor, half-gasping the words.

A few hooms and bah-rooms, and some words that sounded vaguely Elvish later, Rog loosened his grip so that Galdor could take a step back, but Rog did not retreat. "He says you are too pretty," was Twotrunk’s reply. 

"I beg your pardon?" questioned Galdor. He blushed slightly, glad that his companions and King could not understand the current discussion.

"He thought you were a lady Elf," said Twotrunk.

Galdor was about to laugh again, but he cleared his throat. "I am told that often," he admitted. While the Gondolin Elves nearby were dressed in fine fabrics, brushed leather, and exquisitely fashioned armor, Galdor outshined them all. His clothing was richly embroidered, and he wore many-layered robes of brilliant colors. His long hair was braided and bejeweled, and he wore many gems upon his fingers, ears, and neck. Even his horse was prettier than the others, and he had approached riding sidesaddle, which may have added to Rog’s confusion. "It is a personal decision. Please tell him I am most certainly a man."

As Twotrunk spoke, Rog furrowed his brow with uncertainty. “What are you discussing now?” asked the King, for Galdor was not translating back at the moment.

“We, uh, we are just reviewing some of the previous points,” called out Galdor, daring not to turn around, so as to keep the flush in his cheeks from the others.

“Unbelievable. We are going to be here for three days at this rate,” mumbled Ecthelion.

“Don’t be hasty!” Galdor huffed, earning a raised eyebrow from Turgon. “These things take time,” he added in a calmer tone. “I am doing the best I can. There just is not a means to say anything quickly without giving offense in their culture. I ask your forbearance.”

“Continue,” Turgon commanded. “But why did he assault you?”

“A misunderstanding, Sire. Rog believed my laughter at Twotrunk’s humor was mockery directed at him. These Elves are very brave, Lord. They escaped the fortress of the Great Enemy, where they were his thralls for countless years. The story I was told is incredible. They are miners and smiths, prized by Morgoth for their metalcraft and strength. Before their capture and enslavement they were Forest Elves of a clan named Kindi. Rog became their leader by his actions and...here they are.”

Turgon considered, his tall frame ramrod-straight. The pride in Rog’s bearing was unmistakable and he knew that the course of wisdom would be to harness that rather than contest it. “My laws are for the safety of all our people; and they must now obey them as well. Yet I would count them as our kin, not our adversaries. Tell Rog that Turgon, King of Gondolin offers him a Lordship of his own House and sanctuary for his people as full citizens of this Realm, in exchange for his pledge of loyalty. You and other of my Lords are here; he may ask what questions he will of them for he would be granted the same privileges and asked to bear the same duties as the rest of you.”

Galdor’s mouth opened and closed while he processed what he had been told.

“Is there a problem, Lord Galdor?”

“N-no, Sire, pardon me. I am only trying to think how to say that in Entish.” His cheeks flushed again as he turned back toward Twotrunk. That had been mostly true. He had seen the expression on Ecthelion’s face and it had revealed nearly as much astonishment as he felt just now but he would no more gainsay Turgon than wish Rog’s hand around his throat again. Well...at least not so rough...truthfully it had been quite exciting and...this was the last thing he needed to be thinking about just now. “Harrrarrrorarooooorrahmmm,” he began with an exceptionally fine rumble in his chest, impressing even himself and ignoring that Ecthelion had just rolled his eyes, the cheeky git. He had the last laugh, though, when that same Elf’s mein was glazing over nicely at the last “hoom-oohm-ahm” and at last the concluding words were relayed to Rog.

Twotrunk conveyed everything very quickly, for an Ent, and then waited. Rog tilted his head, squinted his eyes, and gave Galdor a look that made his heart beat irregularly a long enough moment he had to cough and pardon himself. The burly Avar sauntered over to the rest of his companions, and all of them had a good, long, loud discussion. Galdor tried to keep his composure and remained standing near enough to entertain questions should they arise. He could see how the treefolk got on so well with the Avari. Their discussions seemed nearly as drawn out as those of the Ents. 

When Twotrunk finally spoke to Galdor again, he was able to smile in relief and nodded to the King. “They accept your offer. On one condition.”

Turgon quirked a brow ever so slightly. As with so many matters, he needed not do the questioning. 

“Just what do they want?” asked Ecthelion gruffly.

“They would like to live here – here in this forest. It has been a long time since they have had grass to walk on and trees to sit in and streams to lull them to sleep. They also have the Ents here, and for a while, we will need their assistance to translate. They would request materials for building as well.”

“They shall have them,” declared Turgon. “Supplies will be brought as well. Ecthelion, see to it that they are brought all they need. Food, clothing, wine...and we shall have a feast to celebrate the arrival of our new brothers a week hence,” he added as Ecthelion bowed and set out to fulfill Turgon’s decree. “Well done, Galdor,” he said as Rog approached. The King did not move from his place as Rog closed in. He stopped only a breath away from the King. “Welcome,” said Turgon. He was by far the tallest of anyone in Gondolin, but Rog was certainly not short. 

“Rog,” he declared, placing his hands on his hips.

“Turgon,” replied the King, and he mirrored the pose.

Rog furrowed his brow, shook his head, and then, before anyone knew it was going to happen, embraced Turgon in a bearhug. It was very brief, and from the smile on Rog’s face and the way he clasped Turgon’s shoulder, it was obviously meant to be a friendly gesture. Turgon was momentarily left speechless, but then he patted Rog’s shoulder in return. “It is good to have you hear with us. Galdor, can you...oh! Oh, I think he understood that,” came Turgon’s strained voice as Rog’s massive arms squeezed around him a second time.

“There are worse ways to show kinship, your majesty,” advised Duilin. “I once saw a pair of orcs spit on each other in greeting.”

“Hugging is by far more preferred,” said Turgon as he was let go.

Rog turned, and in moments had gone from standing before Turgon to being practically on top of Galdor. “Oh...I...uh...erk!” Galdor, being shorter in stature and not as solidly built as Turgon was suddenly off the ground and held tightly with his arms pinned at his sides. His fellow lords around them had to bite their tongues to keep their laughter in check. “Oh...ah...you are...uhm...very welcome,” Galdor said once he was set back onto the ground. Now his heart was not just irregular, but flippity-flopping around in his chest. 

“Galdor, since you are able to speak so fluently to the Ents, I am assigning you the task of seeing to it that not only are the Avarin Elves settled in, but also, I wish you to make sure that their needs are met.”

“Of course, sire,” Galdor said with a bow. He straightened up in time to see Rog hugging Twotrunk.

“Have they eaten? It is very late. We must act to provide hospitality so that everyone may rest, and then my, our, efforts can begin in earnest tomorrow,” Galdor insisted. “Majesty, I feel certain you may retire; I assure that your confidence will not be misplaced. Surely the other Lords may return to rest as well if I may have but adequate staff assigned to assist me? I will be able to bring some of my own House upon my return but as you can see...I am here.”

“Duilin, find out who and what Galdor needs, and retrieve whatever that may be. Ecthelion should return before long with what he was tasked to find,” Turgon reminded them. “I leave this situation in everyone’s capable hands.” 

“Sleep well, sire,” offered Egalmoth.

“Farewell, your majesty,” came Duilin’s reply. He turned around to address Galdor after waiting for Turgon to be some distance down the road, and blinked. “Where...where did they go?”

“What?” Egalmoth spun on his heel. “Oh. Are they...where are they?”

Galdor too now looked around, most worried of the three for he felt he had been assigned the lead role. “Twotrunk?” he asked as he began to walk into the forest. “Twotrunk, did you see where they went?”

But the Ent was snoozing, and Galdor did not see Whisperwillow anywhere. He took another few steps into the forest. Only moonlight and starlight were present when Turgon took his leave, but in the overgrown forest, there was very little of either of these things. A few more steps in, and Galdor thought he heard something behind him. He turned, and saw nothing, but then felt someone tap him on the back and scurry off.

He spun around and looked in every direction. “Twotrunk! Twotrunk, your assistance is greatly desired, my friend!” he called out in Old Entish, attempting not to sound agitated. Galdor thought he heard something to his left, turned that way, and again someone tapped him, this time in the middle of the back, and he was certain he heard what sounded like a snicker as he tried once again in vain to catch someone. He huffed at the mockery being made of him. Obviously, they were here, they were somewhere, close enough to him, and it even appeared they thought it was funny. 

“I laugh, I get choked. They mock me, it is all great fun. Ha-ha, yes, fine, how delightful – now where are you?” Galdor was normally one of the calmest lords of Turgon’s realm, but it was late, and he had not eaten supper, and even he had his limits.

Another tap, but this time not just a single poke, but a more meaningful rousing from his thoughts. Galdor turned, and there was Rog. “Well?” was all he said, unsure of what if anything Rog might understand of other words he offered.

Rog pointed into the shadows, then beckoned with his hand. A moment later, an Elf who had been well concealed emerged. Rog pointed to a spot, and the Elf stood. Rog backed up into the shadows of the trees, and his assistance continued to stand in place. A little while later, Rog, in a crouch, began to advance from a different spot. He carefully avoided twigs and anything else that might give him away, paused right behind the Elf, and tapped his back. Then he dropped down, flat in the tall grass, motionless, as the other Elf looked about and then shrugged. Rog backed away on all fours, making no noise. 

Duilin, who had come after Galdor, now stood beside him. “It looks like some sort of game,” he suggested as another Elf sneaked out to try to touch the Elf at the center without being noticed. 

“Why are they playing a game?” wondered Galdor.

“They just spent hundreds of years imprisoned. Now they are here, and we just told them they are safe and can stay here...well, stay is a little stretch...but they went from the worst possible situation to I daresay the best.”

“So what you are telling me is that taking dinner orders and going to bed is really not looking up right now,” Galdor sighed. “Alright. Might as well abandon any thought of that for now, though I do think food should just be brought here. Maybe they have a means to make a game of that too.”

“Well, it looks like you are about to find out. Ecthelion’s house was closest, and that is his livery that is coming toward us pulling a dray-cart. If we are very fortunate, it contains your requested victuals.”

Having nothing else to do since he did not understand the Avarin game, Galdor walked to meet the arrivals and Duilin proved correct. Feeling like an idiot but not knowing what else to do without his Entish translators, he had the drayers position the cart so that the foodstuffs were visible, and held up a loaf of bread. Duilin was asked to do the same with a sizable bunch of grapes and wedge of cheese. With his remaining hand, Galdor beckoned where he had last seen Rog disappear. If he was very lucky, it would even work.

The approach to the cart was slow, with the Avari appearing one by one, more and more, and Rog eventually coming out from the shadows to look at the items that were brought. There was a lot of frowning at the bread, and poking at the vegetables, but when the cured meats and smoked fish were found, the entire group descended, and Duilin and Galdor retreated hastily. 

“Seems like they have a preference for a high-protein diet. No one ends up looking like that eating carrots and rye,” Duilin pointed out.

Galdor gave a nod and used it as an excuse to gaze at Rog. For what purpose, he did not know. There was something attractive about the powerful muscles that were toned from the work done in mines and at a forge. There was something dignified about the way he presented himself, even though none of them wore more than rags at the moment. Perhaps it was just the newness of the situation, or the concern Galdor had in doing a good job, or the incredibly close hug that Rog had given him, and the strange excitement Galdor felt when--

Oh. Oh, that was what it was. 

Galdor felt his cheeks flush and he stepped further away from the cart. “I am going to check on the stream, and make sure the water supply is pure, and I will return. Promptly. Yes.”

Scuttling off, he could not find the pure water supply quickly enough. Kneeling and dipping his spotlessly clean kerchief into the water, he brought it back out and pressed it to his reddened cheeks, remonstrating with himself unsuccessfully for feeling like a wayward youth instead of a Lord of the Gondolindhrim. However Rog was both valorous and attractive; if he was going to fawn at least he was fawning over someone worthwhile. _Oh, focus, focus_ , deep breaths and focus… the cloth pressed to his eyes, he leaned his head back and inhaled as much as he could before releasing the air.

A tap on his shoulder caused the kerchief to be removed (halfway); Galdor peered up to see a frowning Rog inspecting him. Two seconds later, he found himself lifted to his feet and hugged again, and this time his hair was smoothed and petted. With a smile his hand was taken and he was led back toward the budding tree city – baffled, pleased, embarrassed and nonplussed all at the same time – but he was not about to let go of Rog’s hand.

* * *

**Part 2**

Galdor proudly watched as the last slat of a long wooden suspension bridge was secured in place. He and Duilin observed from the ground as Rog called out to others in the trees above that he was going across on a test walk. He carefully walked to the middle, and then jumped up and down a few times. Galdor bit his lip, but a smile slowly spread as Rog nodded and continued across while some of the Avari in the boughs above paused to cheer at the accomplishment. 

“I would say he is well on his way to completing the main bridges before winter,” said Duilin. He had come to be the primary assistant to Galdor for the duration of the project. Duilin was the helpful sort, but more than that, he was very curious about the Avari. Though he was considered a Noldo, there was a little something about him that harkened to a derivation in his genealogy. Several stories recounted by great-aunts and second-cousins in Valinor mentioned a pair of Moriquendi in a previous generation. He not only helped to coordinate the efforts of building the tree city, he also aided Galdor in teaching the Avari how to speak Sindarin and Quenya, in exchange for reverse language lessons. The Ents, as always, were accommodating, but only to a point. After some basic phrases and grammar were recorded, the tree guardians went back into the depths of the forest, leaving Galdor and Duilin to interpret such things as ‘property rights’, ‘council meetings’, and ‘taxes’.

“Turgon should be here soon.” Galdor had a list of talking points with him. He had unfolded it, read it, and tucked it away again several times. The King had insisted on a visit today, a week before the midsummer festivities, wishing to see the progress made on the newest district. He also proposed that Rog should be the one to show him around, now that the Avari had enough mastery of the language to hold brief conversations. 

Additionally, it was suggested at council that all lords available be present. This meant that Galdor looked over his shoulder and groaned. “Great. Here they come. Gondolin’s finest.”

Duilin did not need to even move to know who Galdor was referring to. “Of course they were going to come. They love a good public event.” And without turning, Duilin called out, “Good day to you, Ecthelion! So good of you to join us. You as well, Glorfindel!” 

Galdor squeezed his eyes shut, then turned around as he opened them and straightened his shoulders. “It is an honor to have you both here.”

“Galdor. Duilin.” Ecthelion shielded his eyes and surveyed the entryway into the district. “This is certainly looking better than I expected at this point. Good job, Galdor.”

“Thank you, but Rog really has done most of the work,” insisted Galdor. “I just...facilitate.”

“Your facilitations have been excellent,” complimented Ecthelion.

“Is it just going to be plain like that?” questioned Glorfindel. “There is an awful lot of wood with the wood.”

“What would you suggest?” asked Duilin as Galdor covertly elbowed him.

“Well...since I am asked, and only because I am asked, I would never presume to solicit my opinions otherwise,” said Glorfindel as he walked out of the sunlight and into the shadows of the nearest trees, “but I think since this is all outdoors and very natural, but the wood is the inside portion of the tree, and there are a lot of outside things, like flowers, for instance--”

“Right, random, flowers,” mumbled Duilin.

“--that could be used as a decorative element, such as, a floral garland on the sides of the bridges, or, possibly some braided chains of them around the posts at either end. Just a thought, pay me no mind, clearly not important.”

There was a pause of roughly three seconds before Glorfindel began to walk in Rog’s direction, calling back to the others, “However, since it has been considered, and a solution has been formulated, I should speak with him before he gets too much further into this project. Your pardon.”

“I shall go with him,” Ecthelion decided as he followed.

Duilin turned to Galdor. “I bet you five silver he brings up attaching bells to the bridges, too.”

“No bet. We both know he will.” Galdor frowned as he watched Glorfindel approach Rog excitedly, and as they held a conversation which mainly consisted of Rog nodding and Glorfindel animatedly speaking while Ecthelion attempted to stifle a few yawns. 

“You know you have nothing to be worried about,” said Duilin as Glorfindel laughed and clasped Rog’s shoulder. “You have that ‘I hope ground opens and swallows him’ look on your face again.”

Galdor crossed his arms over his chest. “He stands too close to him,” he grumbled as Rog patted Glorfindel’s shoulder, then gave him one of his customary hugs.

“Right, well, you still have nothing to worry about.”

“Says you.”

Duilin smirked. “Well, yes. And his wife. And his four children.”

“Five. Still not happy about it.”

An actual chuckle left Duilin. “Alright. Go ahead. Be jealous. In the meantime, perhaps think of something to say to Rog before someone else does.”

Galdor swallowed, mouth going dry. “I still have no idea if he would even be interested. Do the Avari even...I know so little,” mumbled Galdor as he fumbled his words. “I would not want to offend him. He has said nothing one way or the other.”

“And if you keep waiting, you may never know.” Duilin nodded in the direction of Ecthelion. “Bet you five silver he falls asleep before the end of the presentation today.”

“Again, no. Do you have five silver burning a hole in your pocket?” Galdor admonished.

“No. Just bored, waiting for…” The sound of the royal trumpeters and drummers interrupted Duilin’s explanation. “The King cometh,” he said as he looked over his clothing and brushed off his sleeves. 

Pressing his lips together, Galdor straightened his posture and smoothed his tunic and cloak, still unable to keep from darting unhappy glances at the interactions of Rog and Glorfindel. At least, until Turgon’s standard-bearer passed, then the King himself who gave a sincere and polite nod to both Galdor and Duilin in turn. Overall his mien seemed wholly pleased; a grand smile at everything on which his eyes alighted indicated nothing other than satisfaction with and interest in all he beheld. Prepared to step forward and begin narrating about the details, Galdor felt his elbow rougly hooked by Duilin, bringing him back into place as the King kept walking along with those of his household following behind.

“What are you doing!?” Galdor hissed, now doubly irritated.

“Keeping you from public reprimand! What is the matter with you?! This is not some casual late-night meeting but a formal occasion; we do not approach Turgon without being summoned! Can you not see he is walking toward Rog?”

“But Rog barely speaks Quenya,” Galdor whined, fretting. “And I helped organize all the work.” Looking down, he blinked furiously, seeking to regain command of himself.

Duilin’s eyes filled with sympathy. Until this moment, he had not wanted to see how bad the situation really was. “Galdor.” He placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Against my better judgement I am going to offer one last piece of advice. Tarnin Austa is some weeks’ hence. You are well aware it is the custom that we stand vigil next to those closest to our hearts. I know you are struggling to declare yourself in an abundance of words...so...invite him.”

Galdor flushed. “I...I think I could actually do that,” he admitted, watching while the procession came to a halt and Rog threw his arms around Turgon in one of those hugs he wanted so badly for himself.

“Good man.”

“I am very impressed with all that I see around me,” Turgon announced in a sonorous voice. “These clever conveyances high overhead. Healthy trees that add beauty and pleasing dwellings to our city. Craftsmanship of surpassing quality from our new smiths. Are you and your people satisfied with all that is here?” he asked Rog.

Rog thought very hard. “Lambë Quendi...Quendion...Lambë Avari…” he shrugged his shoulders. “Avarmar…” he pointed up in the trees. “Aldingar!” 

Shouts of enthusiasm broke out from all of Rog’s people and when the noise died down, to a one, they walked forward with their spears. In the space between Turgon and Rog each laid down their weapon at one of two angles such that the speartips formed a point that aimed toward Turgon’s feet; then each retreated to sit cross-legged somewhere behind Rog with their hands resting on their knees, alert and attentive. The last to do so brought Rog his own spear, which he in turn laid at the King’s feet and sat. Then he spoke a single word, clearly and for all to hear, with his hand over his heart: “Turgon!”

The King’s lips parted slightly. How different this was! A gesture of fealty given wholeheartedly and without artifice, though lacking all of their usual formality. After all this time, unless he had learned nothing at all, be believed he knew what to do. Well, that, or he was about to make the diplomatic mistake of his life. Then again, he was King, inside of his own gates. What diplomatic mistake? Leaning down, he grasped Rog firmly, raising him to his feet, and bear-hugged him. “Rog!” he exclaimed loudly. Then with his hands on his shoulders turned him around and declared so that all could hear: “May I present Lord Rog, of the House of the Hammer of Wrath!” 

Immediately servants came to present Lord Rog with the finery Turgon had commissioned for him; heraldry for himself and his men and banners for their arboreal city. The scene then dissolved into visual and auditory chaos of the celebratory kind. Bear-hugs abounded. Jubilant Avari climbed ropes and took random Gondolindhrim by the hand to show off their tree-homes. Food and drink appeared, as did musical instruments. Everything was completely delightful. Sighing, Galdor tried to summon enthusiasm for a party.

“Hoom-hoom, what is wrong with Lord Galdor?” Two-trunk asked. The Ent had the worst habit of blending in with...well, the trees.

“Somebody desires a closer relationship with our newest Lord of Gondolin but does not know how to go about that, or if he can go about that,” Duilin blurted. “Language barrier and all, plus maybe cultural differences? Who knows?”

“Ahhhhmmmmm hummm burrrmooom...well. He only just arrived here, no need–”

“ – to be hasty,” Galdor said irritably. “That may be the wisdom of the Ents, Two-trunk. 

Another wisdom is, ‘he who hesitates is lost’.” Turning, he walked toward the festivities.

“Sounds terribly rushed to me,” Two-trunk opined. “Then again so do a great many things.”

“Come,” Duilin suggested. “The spring water is delicious this time of day.” Really it was delicious at all times of the day, but it was difficult to offer party food to an Ent and he had to say _something_. The pair ambled after Galdor but swiftly were waylaid by enthusiastic children wanting rides on the tree-swings.

**

One week later, armed with a basket of small gifts from all over Gondolin as a housewarming (or treewarming) gift, and another pep talk from Duilin, Galdor walked purposefully into the tree district, which was strange to think, since he had his own tree district. Galdor’s trees were quite different from the trees found here. The estate of the House of the Tree was laid out on land with exquisitely manicured topiary. All of the trees and bushes, trimmed to resemble the Valar and selected Maiar, were adorned with jewels. The paths were polished marble, and the archways glittered with diamonds and strings of pearls.

This new tree district in the oldest woods of Gondolin had a different sort of beauty. There were the gently swaying bridges overhead and the vines that hugged the trunks of trees, wrapping their way up to greet the sun. There were no floral garlands adorning the paths, but the Avari had taken to the idea of bells and had them hanging from the low branches so that there was music every time there was a breeze. 

Of course, the most amazing part of this district, in Galdor’s mind, was the burly Avar he had come to see. He carefully made his way up the winding stairs of a particular tree near the center until he came to a platform which connected to all of the bridges. Here, one chose the path to the household they came to visit, and Galdor took a deep breath and continued onward. He could hear the broken Quenya nearby and knew he was close to his destination. It was obvious there was at least one visitor, so Galdor smiled in greeting when he caught Rog’s gaze, but kept back so as not to intrude.

The abrupt pause from Rog alerted his guest--and Galdor had to steady himself from stumbling on the bridge when he saw King Turgon come into view. “Your Majesty,” he apologized as he bowed and clutched the basket, “I did not mean to interrupt.”

“It is no interruption--I was only paying Rog a friendly visit for lunch,” replied Turgon. “We were just discussing the upcoming festivities,” he said.

“I have had that on my mind as well,” admitted Galdor, heart thumping.

“Rog and I were going over the plans for the day. It seems there is nothing quite like it in Avarin culture. I am quite pleased that he has accepted my invitation for him to join me with the rest of my family in my tower for the entirety of Tarnin Austa.”

A small gasp escaped Galdor, and he attempted to recover from the shock. “The uh...your tower. It is quite tall,” was all he could come up with to explain his reaction.

“Indeed. Rog seems quite impressed with the idea of a structure as tall as a tree.” Turgon’s gaze fell upon the basket that Galdor had. “It seems you have had a full day at the Greater Market.”

“A gift.” Galdor stepped forward and thrust it out at Rog. “Welcome. I mean, we have welcomed you, and this is a housewarming present. I, uhm...collected items from around the kingdom that you might find of interest,” he babbled, hands shaking as Rog lifted some of the items to look at them. “Wine from the House of the Swallow and honeybark from the House of the Harp and...a little something from each House. I look forward to adding something of the House of the Hammer of Wrath for someone in the future.” Galdor took a step back and bit his lip. This sort of gift basket was not something he had ever attempted, nor did he feel he would again. “I, uhm...well, I should go,” he said as he watched both Rog and Turgon looking over the selections.

“This is one of the best wines,” commended Turgon. “It may even go well with the meal. Rog and I were just about to have lunch.”

If he had not already felt defeated, Turgon’s words left him empty. “Yes. It is a good wine.” Galdor took another step back. “Your pardon. I have a busy schedule today. I hope you enjoy your time together.”

“Would you care to join us for lunch?” asked Turgon.

“No! That is, no thank you, your Majesty. Your Lordship,” Galdor added as Rog set the basket down. “I really must be off.”

Before he could retreat, Rog was upon him, and Galdor was receiving one of the famous bear hugs. Trembling slightly, Galdor clung to Rog for a moment before he pulled himself away. “Your pardon. I must go.”

* * *

“You ran away from an invitation from the King,” clarified Duilin later while sitting with Galdor in his winecellar. Galdor skipped the council, and Galdor never skipped council, and Duilin figured out half the story when he found Galdor huddled in a corner of the wine cellar, hugging himself. 

“No. I ran away from the pain of seeing my King with...I was never even brave enough to reach a point where I could name him as anything to me. Who is Rog to me? A friend, I suppose, but never to be anything more.”

“That seems very depressing, and I think you should still go and speak with him,” advised Duilin.

Galdor shook his head. “No. I cannot take the chance that I overstep. If Turgon wishes a relationship with him...how can I possibly dream to come between them?”

“Turgon was married to a woman,” Duilin reminded his friend.

“Yes, and he has been lonely for some time. Perhaps this will lighten his heart. There was laughter as I approached, and good talk, and meals shared, and the festival – Rog is accompanying Turgon to the festival.”

“Accompanying him? He actually said that?”

“He might as well. So it makes no difference; I cannot ask him now even if I wanted to. He is spoken for that night, and...and I...I missed my chance,” said Galdor.

“Perhaps they are just friends,” suggested Duilin.

“Duilin, they are having lunch. How many times has Turgon asked you to have lunch with him?”

“When...we...are we including times on the Ice when we were huddled together for warmth?” asked Duilin.

“...sure,” conceded Galdor after a moment. Galdor had been born in Middle-earth, and he knew enough not to challenge anyone who wanted to count the Helcaraxë as part of any situation.

“Then...it would be...none at all, but still, he lunches with Ecthelion at times. And Glorfindel,” added Duilin.

“Everyone lunches with Glorfindel,” spat back Galdor. “He invites himself to every damned thing. Sorry,” he added a moment later. “This has not been a particularly good day.”

“Maybe it will be a passing fancy and Turgon will grow tired ere long and you can try again,” suggested Duilin. When Galdor glared at him, he held up his hands. “Alright. I will say no more. Would you like to spend Tarnin Austa with my wife and niece and I? We always spend the evening drinking the good wine and making fun of people who put bells on their horses,” he said with a wink.

“No. In fact, I mean not to attend.”

“Not attend Tarnin Austa?” questioned Duilin. He sighed. “Alright. I know better than to push you. If you change your mind, though, the invitation stands.”

* * *

Galdor did not attend that Tarnin Austa, nor the next, nor the one after that. Each year, Rog spent the days in Turgon’s tower. It became a ritual, even after Maeglin joined the family. Always, Rog was there for the celebration. 

When asked, Galdor would say only that he wished the day for his own personal spiritual time. Only Duilin knew that this involved sitting in a cellar drinking his way through two or three bottles of wine and passing out before dawn. It was therefore something of a miracle that on the last Tarnin Austa, Galdor returned to his estate so incredibly tired that he passed out before drinking a drop, and awoke to the clanging of warning bells and the sound of trumpets calling all Lords to the tower. The last sight Galdor had of Rog in Gondolin preceded the fighting, just before everything descended into chaos. Rog’s men were with him; those strong arms bore a shield and hammer the likes of which Galdor had never beheld. He was no stranger to war, none of them were, but that weapon...he swallowed hard. For a moment he stared at Rog with open yearning and their eyes met; a suspended few seconds etched indelibly into memory. Whatever it was – the word for the expression returned by Rog – it was not rejection or disinterest. Thousands of years would pass by and still a description would elude him, and not for lack of effort.

* * *

**Part 3**

{Mithlond, Year 110 of the Fourth Age} 

They were leaving. They had been leaving for quite some time, but the leaving was really serious now. Leaving had gone from leaving to Leaving. And Círdan had developed a strong opinion.

“Galdor. You have procrastinated long enough. You are going on this ship,” the Lord of the Havens said, completely fed up with the excuses.

“But there is still one more, and you said yourself I am very good at caulking seams,” Galdor wheedled, knowing he had tested the patience of the Elflord far beyond its limits. He too may have been a Lord long ago and far away, but that title had long ceased to apply to him here in Mithlond. He really _had_ dragged his feet and he knew it; his fellow craft workers departed four vessels ago.

Círdan’s beard seemed to be bristling with its own static electricity, so aggravated was he. The mention of continuing labor on the hull was ignored. “There is indeed, and every single berth on it is accounted for, and no you may not stay in the lazarette. This is not a discussion, Galdor. This ship. You. Aboard. Fifteen minutes.”

“I...fine. I will bring my things.”

“Good.”

Galdor had taken precisely eight paces when a familiar voice jarred his ear. “Círdan! My dear friend! So wonderful to see you! Oh, it has been so long. Now...does your brigantine have no banners? Is it to sail undecorated like that? I happen to have the most marvelous needlework from Imladris…”

Horrified, Galdor pulled up short and turned to see the beaming figure of Glorfindel in the process of extracting and unfurling bright cloth from his sea-bag. He rushed back to Círdan. “I cannot go aboard this ship!”

“Why, Galdor! Is it really you? Imagine this! You, and I, are we really sailing together to Valinor?” Glorfindel asked, delighted.

“No!” Galdor said at the same time Círdan spoke a far louder and authoritative “YES!” effectively preventing Glorfindel from having ever heard the negative response. 

“He will meet you in the hold, Glorfindel,” Círdan insisted. Taking Galdor by the hand like an errant child, he supervised the packing of his few clothes and belongings and marched him back to the quay. Once there, he firmly grasped his shoulders with giant hands. “Galdor, listen to me,” the shipwright pleaded in much softer tones. “I know what you are doing which is all the more reason you need to go. You are a brave ellon but there is a lesson you must learn: None of us can run away from the future.”

Galdor looked down at his boots. For all that had just occurred, he loved and trusted Círdan like a father. “Am I brave?”

Círdan raised Galdor’s chin and met his eyes. “You survived the fall of Gondolin. You tell me. Now, go, and consider lending Glorfindel your ear. He did not survive, and you may find he has a few things to say about love, and loss.”

Stunned, Galdor held his hand over his heart and went aboard without further protest. So he was not allowed in the lazarette. Fine. Most of the berths were forward and amidships, and he happened to that two were astern and _not_ preferable. Having worked and lived at the Havens for two Ages, he knew ships; Círdan had been his craftmaster and he had helped build most every vessel to depart these shores so of course he knew where the sleeping places were. It was even possible he could be alone back here; Here was not particularly easy to find given one had to squeeze past the mainmast upon which he had hung a coil of thick line just to further obfuscate the passage. Sitting on the well-made straw-tick, he held his head in his hands. At least on these shores he had been able to run away from Maybes and Possibilities. Returning to Valinor meant he would have to face a probable final heartbreak. Rog married to someone else after all this time, and then even the Maybes would be gone. His thoughts overcame him, and he quietly wept. 

“If you wanted to talk about it, I would gladly listen,” he heard Glorfindel’s voice say compassionately.

Bleary-eyed, he had no idea how he could possibly have been discovered but now he was trapped. Glorfindel’s bag was on the only other berth. _Oh, Valar, no_ … “You would not understand.” 

“It is a long passage,” Glorfindel reminded him. “We share a great past and a great sorrow. Try me. Please?”

“I need some time.” 

Glorfindel sat alongside, and simply placed an arm around his shoulder, saying nothing but remaining with him. Two days later, at the bow under pleasant rolling seas, Galdor began to speak of Rog. Slowly at first, then when he saw he was not being mocked, he told all of what was in his heart. In turn Glorfindel related the tale of his own family, and his simple hopes to be with them again. It was one of many conversations. 

When at last they docked at the Bay of Eldamar, and Galdor did not know where to go or how to begin, Glorfindel invited him: “I have not wanted to boast of my heritage but I am a grandson of King Finwë. Turgon is my cousin, which is why I bear great love for him among other reasons. Please be my guest at our home; you will be welcome and honored. Tirion is also centrally located; perhaps there will be news of Rog. No one is more likely to have had word than those dwelling there.”

Galdor gratefully accepted, and it was so. Within three days, refreshed, Galdor also was armed with what he most wished to know for as fortune would have it Turgon himself lived at the sprawling complex of the High King beneath the Tower of Ingwë, with its silver lamp shining into the distance. 

“Oh, Rog!” Turgon chuckled after embracing his lost friends and introducing Elenwë. “I hardly know if I should tell you, or let you be surprised.”

“Surprised about what?” Galdor asked.

“Well he did not stand still when his time with Lord Námo was at an end. That ellon has creative vision, mark my words! I honestly think he outdoes cousin Galadriel, and she is not exactly lacking in ideas herself.”

“Then you know where he is?” Galdor asked, trying to stamp any trace of eagerness from his voice.

“He named it Aldamir,” Turgon explained. “Four days’ walk on foot, maybe two on horseback, west of Tirion. There is a road to turn to the north, well-marked. If you cross a large river you have gone too far. Then another four days’ travel north. It is impossible to miss.”

“Tree-jewel?” Galdor smiled quizzically.

Turgon shrugged, grinning. “You will see.”

* * *

Walking to see the wonders of Valinor sounded like a lovely introduction to the land. Galdor knew there would be countless years for that in the future. He borrowed a horse from Glorfindel’s stable and did not even roll his eyes at the bells adorning the steed. He was determined to reach his destination swiftly, and followed the directions given to him exactly. 

It was not Rog he reached first when he crossed over into an area of denser growth and houses either further apart or found above. “Duilin!” Galdor almost dismounted and ran to his friend of old, but he still greatly wished to see Rog before the end of the day, so he stayed mounted. “It is so good to see you!” Galdor laughed. “You have not changed a bit, my friend,” he said as Duilin approached.

“Galdor? I know your voice...well, some things change,” he said as he observed him from where he sat. Duilin was sitting on a wooden bench swing hanging from two sturdy trees, and he did not look interested in leaving his seat either. “By looks I would not have recognized you.”

Galdor shrugged. “Not much sense dressing up in finery when all you do all day is build ships and wave to people setting off on voyages. I expect I will soon fall back into old habits here. Not to be impatient, but I heard that Rog lives nearby…”

Duilin chuckled merrily. “I would wager you will find him before long. I suspect you know, then.”

“Know what?” asked Galdor, suddenly nervous.

“He and Turgon.”

Galdor’s shoulders slumped. “You mean – ”

“Oh! No, you dolt! My goodness, no! Breathe, Galdor!” Duilin shook his head. “He and Turgon, and their friendship that you mistook for something else.”

Galdor straightened up again. “Friendship?”

“Yes, and the ridiculous way all of us were acting in Gondolin,” admitted Duilin. “We took his harsh edicts as reason to fear him as a tyrant at times, when he really meant to portray the part of an elder brother protecting his siblings. Away from so many brothers and cousins who were likened to brothers to him, and to lose them one by one while away from them, he wanted us to take those roles. But none of us really did – no one but Rog, who could understand that without comprehending the language.”

“Oh...I feel like an idiot now.”

“Stop. Feel like an idiot later. Feel like someone who has been greatly missed now. Ride on; I believe you shall find what you seek. In fact,” added Duilin as he rested his head back and smiled, “I would bet five silver on it, if I could find the silver to bet. Strange thing about Valinor; no one here gambles because no one here has need of money.”

“I will be back with so many questions for you later,” promised Galdor before he rode on. He made it five paces, and reined in the horse, remembering something. “Duilin!” he called, hurling a small leather pouch from his pocket while nudging the mount forward again, chuckling. He did not even look to see if it had been caught or not, but if he recalled correctly there were twenty silver coins inside and he had no need of any of them ever again. A delighted whoop from behind him affirmed that there were at least five.

A brisk trot carried him further on until the horse seemed interested in a not-so-brisk trot and then a lazy walk but what was a few more minutes? Besides, the district truly was lovely here, so many different kinds of trees. It reminded him a little of Rog’s tree city in Gondolin and yet not, and he found himself missing his own lovely former home, with its exquisitely cared for gardens and – 

Rounding a bend in a road Galdor caught sight of the estate and thought he could not possibly be seeing things clearly, or that he had perhaps slipped into some kind of waking dream. _Hallucination?_ Sliding off the horse, he murmured for the good beast to follow him, and rubbed his eyes some more for good measure. Because this was _his_ House, the House of the Tree, in Gondolin...walking backwards, confused, he looked for the rest of the city and...no, the Tower of the King was distinctly missing...but that was his House...he placed a hand on his forehead. Perhaps he was unwell?

Moving closer, he ran his hand over immaculate topiaries, here was one of Lord Ulmo, and saw jewels just like the ones that used to adorn his decorations...soon his vision blurred with tears and he could not walk any further. He reached forward to touch where the light sparkled from what might be a sapphire, he did not know. Once again, it was all too much and he wept.

Strong arms suddenly enveloped him from behind and a chin rested gently on his shoulder. “If I am analyzing your reaction correctly,” spoke the voice he most longed to hear, “I did a pretty good job.”

Galdor leaned back into the embrace, that firm hug he had missed so much. “Perfect,” he managed through his tears. “Everything is just as I remember it.” He turned himself around and looked up at Rog. He had several days of riding to plan out everything he wanted to say, but now as he looked at Rog, all of the eloquent words left him, and he sniffled as he said, “I missed you so much.”

Rog loosened his hold so that he could move a hand to stroke Galdor’s cheek. “You should have told me,” he said softly. He still had his Avarin accent, but his Quenya had much improved, even beyond what it had been in Gondolin. “You stopped coming to visit. I thought I must have offended you in some way, or that you had finished your task and you only saw me as work. Duilin explained everything. I will admit, it is still a strange thought, for we had no such relationships in my tribe, but I do know one thing: I missed you, too. And...Duilin said I should...do this.”

Thinking the reference was to the house, Galdor was about to turn to look at it again, but he was stalled as Rog kept his hand upon Galdor’s cheek, bowed his head and very tentatively kissed Galdor’s lips. Rog straightened up and studied Galdor for a reaction.

Long ago he might have schooled himself to silly demurring or shyness. Not that the shyness was absent, but centuries of yearning overruled it. Without thinking Galdor’s arms raised to slip under Rog’s, encircling his middle. Holding him close, as he had dreamed of doing for so long. “I imagined, hoped you would do that so many times. I just never really believed it could come true. From the first time I saw you...you loved trees just like I did…” Embarrassed at his lack of eloquence and not knowing what else to say – but so desperately glad of the kiss – Galdor fell silent.

“It was...very nice,” said Rog, and the burly bear of an Elf blushed. He bowed his head to try again. This time, less timid, they kissed a few times. Rog was slightly redder when they paused. “That was even nicer. Come. I want to show you our house.”

“Our...our house?” Galdor felt his eyes water again. “Our house. I like that idea.”

Rog kept an arm around Galdor’s waist as he walked him to the estate that was so familiar and yet such a delightful surprise. “Duilin helped to tell me what it looked like inside. I regret that I do not have those memories, and yet, we have time to make memories now.”

Galdor closed his eyes and held on once again. “Thank you for this...” On his toes, he reached up to kiss the taller Elf in appreciation. “Finding that you wanted me is everything I hoped and wished for. That there is so much more...” Some attempt was made to brush the tears aside and not look like a complete idiot on a happy occasion...it was just so hard, after so much fear and doubt...that he had brought all on himself. “I want to know all about you. What happened to you. How you did all this. Everything. Your whole life. You must not leave anything out,” Galdor smiled, knowing that his list of demands would take at least the next year to explain. “I love you.”

There was a moment, and Galdor almost regretted his confession, but then Rog kissed him again. “I love you, too,” he said as he opened the door. “Welcome home.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Rog is mostly butchering his Quenya words but it goes something like:  
> Lambë Quendi "Language Elves"  
> Quendion "of the Elves" (he had a moment of grammar, since yes it should be Lambë Quendion)  
> Lambë Avari "Language Avari" (oops, same problem)  
> Avarmar "Avarin dwelling place"  
> Aldingar "Treetops"  
> So basically...you can make a lot work with pointing, three or four words and a good attitude!
> 
> A note from Zhie: Please note that this was written for TRSB, which requires that artists comment on the works written by the author, yet does not demand reciprocity that the author provide feedback or commentary to the artist in the same public forum, such as on their Deviant Art page. I would like to apologize to all artists that you are put in what I believe to be an unfair position. While comments are always appreciated, forced comments are tyrannical. I am deeply sorry to all artists who are forced to leave comments, as this should be seen as a collaborative work. When an author and illustrator work together, the illustrator is not expected to write a review for the author's work. This is turning what should be an equal collaboration into an exchange scenario, which I believe demeans the work that the artists put into their part of the collaboration.
> 
> WaywardDesertKnight, through a very unexpected set of circumstances, I have had the pleasure of now working with you a second time--and I'm tempted now to try for a third year next go, because really good things happen when you make art and I get to write about it. Bonus this time was having AnnEllspethRaven along for the ride. Although you probably already know this, since others are reading, I want to acknowledge that you are one of the best artists to work with. You are so encouraging and so willing to see where things twist and turn, and it makes the writing process extra enjoyable. Your pieces always have a complete story woven into them, and it makes it great fun to discover the dialogue and narrative that fits your visual stories. Your style is really great, too--I want a whole calendar of your works, because I truly believe your talent is on par with the Tolkien artists whose works appear in said calendars. Your interpretations of the Silm are a real treat to see. Thank you!


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